


Red Ice and Green Fire

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Innocence, Lies, Loss of Innocence, Magic, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 06:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10353897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: The power of an innocent child's wisdom is absolute. None, not even the Dread Wolf himself, can escape those tiny, trusting hands.





	1. A Word to the Unwise

She dashed aside, crouching close to the ground, returning in the blink of an eye with a handful of small stones. With alarming accuracy, she proceeded to place the pebbles where they encountered Rifts, finishing with three they had yet to face.

One sat high in the mountains, and Leliana was quick to seize upon it as the reason why her scouts had been detained; the second encompassed the courtyard directly adjacent to the centre of the temple, and Cullen declared it would be tantamount to suicide to engage without a means of sealing the tear; and the third sat at the heart of the temple, directly beneath the Breach.

The prisoner looked back and forth between them as they argued. Leliana refused to abandon her people, Cullen refused to issue orders that would send his soldiers to their deaths, and Cassandra was valiantly attempting to bottleneck the Chancellor’s insurgence.

“Er, Solas?”

She was tugging on his tunic sleeve, and on the collar of Varric’s shirt; once she had their attention, she proceeded to cast numerous nuggets of ice around the closest Rift, the one located in the courtyard. By pointing to the Commander, and back to the tiny crystals, it was easy to understand that they represented his soldiers.

With one hand, she drew four soldiers towards the Rift and, in the middle of her hissing palm, she dropped four more crystals into the green light. When she drew the soldiers away, she removed the – what Solas assumed were – demons. She repeated this with a single soldier and a single demon, then she used them to create a perimeter around the Rift, and finally drew them back into a likeness of a shield wall a safe distance away.

For a moment, she paused, studying their reactions, then she cast a handful of icy chunks up around the furthest Rift – the one locked in the mountains – and held just as many, if not more, in her glowing green palm. She made no attempt to remove them.

Solas’ eyes darted back and forth, absently toying with a crystal, ignoring Varric’s ramblings entirely. It didn’t take him long, but when it finally struck him, Solas felt ashamedly stupid.

“Why didn’t I see it before?” he snapped, crushing the shard between his fingers. It did nothing to elevate his mood.

“See _what_ , Chuckles?”

“The scouts are trapped in the mountain pass, yes? Trapped because the Rifts continually spill out demons so long as there is something to draw them. Until the scouts die, that Rift will remain active.”

“OK… What about the other one? What was with the circle?”

“Every Rift we have approached, the demons did not venture through the tear until we were well within range. There is a ring around the Rifts and, when we stand within this ring, we stand foreign territory, territory the demons have claimed as their own.”

“So, if we don’t get too close the demons... won’t attack us?”

“Precisely.”

“Hey! That’s fantastic! Why _didn’t_ we see that before?”

“It does not matter now,” he refuted, circle the table to take the prisoners hands in his own. “Thank you, _da’len_ , for opening my eyes.”

Her own went impossibly wide, but he was gone before he could gauge her reaction or hear her reply, stepping between the Spymaster and Commander to discuss, and present, an alternate plan. Varric watched, holding the prisoner’s right hand in his left as she fought back tears: Solas was using her ice crystals to explain her reasoning.

“With this in mind, the Rift atop the mountain will soon become inert, but its area of effect will spread and its territory expand. If we can accompany the prisoner up the path and seal this Rift, we can double back once we reach the temple. Commander, your forces would not have to charge until signs of activity are spotted; it will signal our approach, and we can attack from both sides at once.”

“It’s a solid plan,” Cullen acknowledged, nodding gravely. “In theory.”

“We have few choices, Commander. We cannot leave the Rift to expand, not if the prisoner does not survive the assault on the Breach.”

“Maker preserve us," he sighed, raising a hand to hold the bridge of his nose, the other resting heavily on the pommel of his sword. "If this plan works, Solas, I’ll welcome you at my war table any day.”

“If it works, Commander, I would consider our lives payment enough.”


	2. The Shift of Power

“Um, Solas…?”

She was tugging his sleeve again. It only cemented her face – hopelessly lost and painstakingly innocent – as that of a child’s in his mind.

“ _Da’len_?” he asked, on instinct.

Edging around him until they stood side by side, she raised a weary arm and pointed up at the Breach.

“Solas,” she said.

His face fell, his skin paled, his hands grew slick with sweat. Even with a white-knuckled grip on his staff, the wood threatened to slip through his fingers. When he said nothing, did nothing, she pointed down at the Rift and repeated his name. There was no way she could know, no force in the world that could tell her. He had made sure. There was but one person who knew the truth, and he would never admit his power came from an elf.

He was still standing, staring without seeing, slack-jawed and lifeless, when she stepped back and, placing both hands over her heart, and earnestly declared herself “ _Da’len_.’ Immediately afterwards, she extended her arms, gesturing to him, and declared him to be “Solas”.

A bubble of hope rose up in his chest, pressing against his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. He waited and watched as she dropped her hand to the measure of young child’s height and repeated the title he had so unwittingly bestowed upon her.

 _Da’len_.

Again, she gestured to him and proclaimed him Solas, while adopting a terrible smug and pretentious mask.

With the scratch of a match, a candle flared to life, banishing the darkness, Dread, and despair. He grasped behind him, searching through his empty pockets for the Terror claw he salvaged from the mountains. He repeated her demonstration, alluding to a child’s height, then he offered up the claw in place of himself. Her eager nod and bright eyes, crinkling with fine wrinkles at the edges and tears on her lashes, made his heart sing and Solas found he could breathe again.

_Solas._

Pride.

A Pride demon.

How were they to fight a Pride demon?

“Solas.”

She was tugging on his shirt again.

“I understand, _da’len_ ," he assured, too tired to snap.

He longed to ask her how she knew, but she was, obviously, illiterate, and uneducated in the Common Tongue. Learning she couldn’t string two words together had, at first, felt like a blessing. What danger could she possibly pose to him when she couldn’t even speak? But now...? Now there was so much he wanted to apologise for, so much he wanted to tell her - _teach_ her - and so much he could _learn_ from her. Was the magic, itself, unstable? Had it been corrupted? What was the nature of her relationship with it? Symbiotic? Parasitic? Or, maybe –

Her hands encompassed his, a human’s hands, yet they seemed so small and thin. How young was she? Where were her friends? Her family? What had she aspired to be in the future?

She tilted his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes and, in that instant, he knew their roles were reversed. She would never again be a child in his eyes. She had seen too much. They would brand her a mass murderer, and the people she loved – the people that _once loved her_ – would die believing in the lie he imprisoned her in. Her spirit... would never find peace.

He opened his mouth, the apology weighing heavily on his tongue, but she stole his thunder.

“ _Banal nadas, ma falon_.” Her hand strayed over his cheek and around his neck, followed by a second, cocooning him in such a desperate embrace that he almost missed her vehement whisper. “ _Ir abelas_.”

She kissed his cheek, waves of emotion washing over her eyes as she blinked back tears, and then she was taking his hand, leading him into the temple ruins. He tried to slip free, but she only tightened her grip, and he replied in kind when he heard the Divine’s cries echoing in the open air. He had to be hurting her, but she said nothing, focusing alternatively on stepping around the veins of red lyrium and staring at the ghostly apparition of herself.

She didn’t arrive alone, but neither Templar nor mage stood a chance against their adversary. They served, however, to create a pivotal distraction, allowing her to lead the Divine to safety; she was half carrying, half dragging the woman when they were separated in a blinding flash of light to her echoing scream of, “ _DOROTHEA!_ ”

Someone sliced a blade through the air – whether it was a Templar’s sword or a mage’s staff, no one knew – and something exploded, shattering the mirage. The spirits who remained long enough to re-enact the tragedy vanished without a word.

Varric was kneeling beside the Seeker's prisoner, her wails muffled by his coat, her hand still clenched in his, the magic in her palm licking languidly at his own. It wasn’t reaching for him, and it rejected his own attempts to reign it under control; rather, it was testing him, tasting his power, and he was found lacking.


End file.
